


Nature Romantique

by hariboo



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:21:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1450027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hariboo/pseuds/hariboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks at her. There is an offer in her eyes and he wants to take it so he stands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nature Romantique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts).



> Yeah, IT'S BEEN DONE BEFORE. You all are probably tired of it, but here we go. Nobody has ever called my fic original lbr. Thank you to Emma Bear and Nicole for looking it over! This happened bc Jordan asked, what was I supposed to do, say no?

He looks at her. There is an offer in her eyes and he wants to take it so he stands. There is candlelight flickering behind them, haloing in her hair at the edges where it catches the light, and she does not look like salvation. She does not look like a queen either. She looks like a girl, a beautiful girl, who wants to comfort him, a beautiful girl who wants him and it is enough.

Aramis has always found comfort in love, in all it’s shapes, this time it is no different. 

Maybe it should be. She is the The Queen, _his_ Queen, but tonight she is without all the usual trappings that display her rank so beautifully. He has admired her in those fine clothes, the lavish jewels. He’s indulged in thoughts of her as her cross lays on his chest, he is only a man after all, and she was a beautiful woman, as he told Porthos that day that now feels so long ago. He remembers Porthos’ words that day and to be fair he _had_ done the stare. It had been a habit he’d fallen into as she took that step towards him; a practice move for court and that day the Queen was lovely and gold. So was the cross she gifted him as he kissed it as tenderly as she had touched his cheek. 

There are days he forgets it is hers, today he’s all too aware of it.

Porthos would laugh at him now, would curse at him, shaking his head, and tell him _I told you so_. D'artagnan would probably be shocked; he is still young. Athos will most likely kill him or punch him if he stumbles upon them.

Aramis does not stop kissing her. 

This is escape, it is want. 

He stands, following her lead – she is his chosen sacrament, tonight – and keeps kissing her. In truth he’s only allowed himself few thoughts on her before this moment. The night she gifted him her cross and after they passed each other in the halls after the banishment of Ninon De Larroque. In his thoughts they had languished in silks and drank the finest wine from the palace’s cellars. It had been pure indulgence. That the reality of it is so starkly different it feels like the world’s clever joke. Aramis would appreciate the punchline if his attention wasn’t so captured.

The Queen’s lips are soft and they open readily to his. He feels her sigh, feels the way her body arches toward his hands like she is thirsty for this kiss, for his touch. Possibly for _any_ kiss and touch. He feels just as thirsty. She reaches for him and tugs at his hair, the sting of it soft, barely a feeling, nothing like some of his other lovers who have pulled at it, knowing how he loves it. She is unsure, he gathers, but not shy. There is no shyness in her as she pulls him over her as they fall on the bed.

He brushes her hair out of her face, “You need not be so careful with me.” _My queen_ is left hanging in the space between their lips and the curve of her smile makes him think that she is glad he did not speak it. 

Under him, she shifts, her fingers curl at his neck. “I would like to not be careful at all.”

He grins, he was right. There is no shyness in her. She is quiet and careful, but there is a glimpse of slyness in the corner of eyes. Her legs part and he can feel the arch of her foot as it slides up his leg. 

“My…”

“Anne,” she says. It’s so quiet he almost thinks he imagines it and the silent plea behind the word, but he thinks he understands. He also understands the gift her name is. However, he has always been one to push at barriers. 

“Anna,” he whispers back and catches the delight in her face at her given name. She smiles as she presses her mouth to his and licks at his lips.

“Gracias.” 

The world is exhaled as a benediction. Maybe it is right they are doing this in convent after all. Let our sins be blessed, Aramis thinks with a smirk, as he reaches between them and pulls at her dress.

The material bunches in his hands as he shoves it up her thighs. Her knees bend, cradling him, and she gasps into his mouth when he strokes her. Her hips hitch up as if she wants more, wants to take him deeper, and he can feel her nails through the linen of his shirt. With his other hand he cups her head, strokes his thumb behind her ear in time with the finger inside her. She moans when he adds a second, the sound low and heavy, not one he would have expected. Neither is her hand as she reaches between them and holds onto his wrist tight and joining his fingers with hers. 

He is surprised, breath catching just and pulls back slightly; cannot help but look down at their entwined hands. She circles her clit, showing him how she likes it, and never let it be said he doesn’t catch on quickly. Grabbing at her hand, Aramis pulls it away and sucks her index and middle finger into his mouth before he leans down and sucks at where her fingers had been. He is not sure if it is his name or a moan he hears. It might have been both. Her skirts get shoved messily by her hips and his own clothes are feeling too tight. 

She clutches the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer to her. This time it is his name, he’s sure. He smiles against her, licks her once, twice, three time before he nips at the inside of her thigh.

He can hear her muttering in Spanish above him. Her words make him smile. He briefly wonders if she does this often, this muttering in Spanish, if it is something private for herself, if the King has hears it—no that is not a thought for now. He relishes in it, however. Likes how her words trip over themselves faster. Her French is polished, perfectly learned. Her Spanish flows out of her like air. He wonders how many others have noticed the difference. He tells her what he’s told many of his lovers and gives her words in her mother tongue. He calls _bella, deliciosa, perfecta_ and while no less true it is another habit, and then he stops, pulls back, leaning back far enough to catch her eyes and breaks the silent rule she asked. 

“Mi reina,” he whispers against her and listens as his name catches perfectly when he ducks back down and licks her again, curling his fingers inside and pressing his thumb down on her clit.

Her body bows beautifully and he now more than before he feels greedy for it. He does not rush though, even as he feels himself closer to the edge than before. He watches as she loses herself for a beat, takes notes of her flushed cheeks and wet lips. Resting his head against the curve of her hip he kisses it when her fingers bury themselves back in his hair, combing through it gently as she catches her breath. He’s curious if this will be all, if this was all she wanted—

She tugs at his hair, harder than earlier, but still gentle. She is gaining her sureness with him. It makes him smile. He leans up, ready to ask her what she wants, when she closes the distance between them and kisses him hard. She is hotter than before, pulling at his clothes, her breath still a bit harsh. He catches her hand in his and bites her fingers. She laughs and tugs back. 

“Aramis,” she sounds playful, young. It is reflected in the gleam in her eyes. He cannot help but smile at her. When he lets go of her hands, he watches as her face chances, it lingers between playful and wary. He wonders if she thinks he is done with her now as he did in regards to her just moments before. 

The skirts of her dress are bunched high on her waist from his actions before, her sleeves are loose around her shoulders, and the shift is very very wrinkled. He can see how her nipples strain against the material. Aramis bows down to her, never looking away from her eyes until he dips his head down and takes a nipple into his mouth, cloth and all. She shivers and moans pleasantly.

“May I…” he trails off, letting his hands speak for him as he pushes her dress higher and higher until her arms are stretched above her head and they pull her dress off.

As she lays under him he thinks how the lightning compliments her skin, her hair, how her eyes are no longer the blue of the sky, but a blue that reminds him of the sky as a storm approaches, her lashes fan dark around her eyes. He isn’t allowed to dwell on these thoughts as she skims her fingers against his belt and pulls his shirt out of his trousers and his attention is fully distracted by her hands. 

“Anna.” This time it is her name said in playful jest, but it’s a tone quickly lost as they rid him of his clothes and he stretches back over her. He strokes her thighs as they fall open around him. She reaches up, sure but careful, to cup his face as he lines himself at her entrance. 

They stare at each other as he pushes inside her and it is not overwhelming, it does not feel like a moment where his life will change (little does he know, but not the reasons most would have imagined), but it feels good. She looks at him and he looks at her and the same thing is reflected in their eyes. They share a small smile as they kiss again, strangely chaste at first but then grows into something resembling comfort. This was not salvation, this was not absolution, this was simple at it’s core, regardless all the complications that surround them. This was want and need.

He moves slowly at first, but not for long, not when Anne’s thighs tighten around him and she whispers _mas, quiero mas_ against his mouth, curls her arms under his armpits, clutching at his shoulders and tells him _dame todo, dame todo_ and he wants to, even if it’s just for this moment. He wants to give her what she asks for. 

When he comes he groans, his hands might tighten a little too much on her hip, but she does not complain and he drops against her breasts. He lays there, comfortable and spent for a few seconds when feels her fingers in his hair again, this time small bite of her nails accompanies the sensation. 

“You like that,” she says, wiggling a bit under him and he bites at his cheek at the fact he used the word “wiggle” in relation to his Queen. He does not say as much; he can make smart choices at times.

“What makes you say that?” 

“You purr a bit,” she pauses, turns to him as he moves off her and props himself up on an elbow besides her. “Well, not purr, but you make a sound just here,” she touches the hollow of his throat. He reaches and catches her hand, turns it over and kisses her knuckles.. 

“Interesting. Do you notice everything?”

“I try to.”

She sounds soft and sleepy, but her eyes are anything but.

It makes him smile. It has not been the first time he’s been told this. Only one other person has made note of it. He tilts his head down and kisses her throat just where she touched him. She hums and giggles. 

He grins.

“Notice how I did not mention the sounds you make.”

Her eyes widen in shock and he guesses at the surprise of being teased. She looks so young again he almost feeling guilty for... he’s not sure for what, but it feels like a situation he should be feeling guilty about. He sighs and lets the feeling pass. She is not blushing virgin but there is a softness about her that she wears like shield. When she leans up and catching his bottom lip between her teeth he thinks it might also be weapon. He lets her lead this kiss, like she did their first, pushing him back on the thin mattress and pressing herself against him.

“And what if I liked them? What if I want to hear more? What if I want to make more?”

“I should like to see if I can pull some more Spanish from your lips.”

“Veramos.”

She laughs softly when he kisses her, pulling her close. She rests against him, hooking a leg over his waist and rests her head on his chest. He draws his hand up and down her back, a comfort to them both he thinks as she sighs at his touch. 

“Gracias, Aramis.”

His shoulders tighten at her words, they feel like too much, but they also feel right. What else can they really say to each other? He drops a kiss on the crown of her head. 

“Gracias, Anna,” he says, and much to his surprise he means it.

-

In the morning, before they leave with Treville, who does not want to waste anytime in getting the Queen back, he catches her by the doors of the room. The sunlight is streaming behind her like a painting and he thinks of the Holy Mother, he thinks of Magdalene. He however is not a messiah, he is just a man. And last night she was just a beautiful, warm woman.

But he also a Musketeer and she is his Queen.

She looks up as he lingers by the door and smiles at him. It is the same smile she gave him when she gave him the cross, when she walked away in the halls of the palace. It is his and not his; it is Anne and a Queen’s smile. He still appreciates the extra softness in her mouth aimed at him.

“We are ready to part, my Queen.”

She nods. “Thank you, Aramis.” 

Walking towards him, she lingers by the doorway, just as he did. He dared not step inside, she hovers just before she crosses the threshold, quickly reaching out to touch where she knows her cross lay for a second, catching his gaze. Then she is sweeping past him, the room empty behind her, bare but for it’s bed and single candle holder. 

He looks at it and reaches under his shirt to bring kiss the cross. There is no longing in him, he realises as he turns his back on the room. They came together as soldiers in battle, finding comfort, warmth, and maybe a little romance in each other. They have parted with greater affection for each other and the knowledge that not much has changed between them. She is still his Queen and he is might be more of Queen’s Musketeer than a King’s, but he does not feel betrayal in that thought. 

Turning, he walks away from the room. The sunlight still shining bright through it and chuckles to himself as he hears the other’s voices in the main room, affection for all of them filling him and warming him to his core. He, after all, has always had a more romantic nature.


End file.
